I HAVE had a lot of soup in my day. Probably will have a lot more.
But the soup I'll always remember is that broth the natives prepared for
me on a palm covered Pacific island, which for the present must be
nameless.

I was wonderfully strengthened, as was Johnny DeAngelis.
Jimmy, however, was in so advanced a state of starvation that his system
could not absorb the nourishment the broth held for him. But help was on
its way.

As we finished the last of the soup and were gnawing
at chicken bones, a Navy scout plane boomed across our clearing, circled
and landed on the water. In response to the garrison's message, the Navy
had sent a physician, a Lieut. Hall. He lost no time in beginning the injections
of glucose that were to save Jimmy's life.

He ministered to me also and treated DeAngelis and
Reynolds for their salt water ulcers. Meanwhile, we chatted with Lieut. (j.g.)
Fred E. Woodward, who had flown Lieut. Hall to our island. He had first hand
news of our friends.

It had been Lieut. Woodward's observer, Lester Boute,
aviation radioman second class, whose keen eyes had spotted Bill Cherry's
tiny raft on the afternoon of Nov. 11. We owe a real debt of gratitude to
Boute because the rescue of Cherry led to finding us all  just as Bill
had forecast when he cut loose on Nov. 10.

Rickenbacker, Col. Adamson, and Bartek were picked
up by Lieut. William F. Eadie whose Kingfisher squadron

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located them. Lieut. Eadie is a real flyer and a real man. Here
is how he rescued those three.

The scout planes' efforts to guide surface craft to
the Rickenbacker raft were hampered by rain squalls. It was growing dark.
There was danger the raft might be lost again during the night and that someone
aboard it might die unless given immediate attention.

Lieut. Eadie saw only one thing to do and he did it.
He set Kingfisher down in the rolling sea beside the raft, 40 miles from
shore. And remember, this was at dusk.

No medical skill was required to understand that Col.
Adamson's condition was grave. Assisted by his observer, Lieut. Eadie lifted
the Colonel from the raft and established him in the rear cockpit of the
Kingfisher. There was no room inside for Rickenbacker and Bartek. They were
lashed to the plane's wings.

Lieut. Eadie began taxiing the overloaded plane toward
the distant shore. This was fairly rough on Rickenbacker who already had
taken much more than many men of 52 years would be able to endure and live.
After 10 minutes of taxiing, Lieut. Eadie encountered a motor torpedo boat
to which he transferred Rick and Bartek.

Because of his condition, it was deemed best to leave
Col. Adamson in the plane, which Eadie now taxied the remaining distance
to a Marine-manned island.

By the time I had learned these details, Lieut. Hall
had finished with Reynolds and DeAngelis for the time being and was ordering
me to bed. We all were transferred to the garrison, a short distance away.
Three of the military gave up their bunks and remained awake to lend Lieut.
Hall any assistance he might require during the night.

The island behaved very well on this night, but the
cot to which I was assigned seemed to have contracted St.

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Vitus' dance, or something. It dumped me onto the floor three times
before daylight.

The next day, Nov. 14, was my 41st birthday. It was
auspicious in many ways. To begin with, I felt 100 percent better. Before
long, delegations of native women began arriving, bearing gifts of mats,
fans, shells, and grass hula skirts. We held our court like native chieftains,
DeAngelis and I. Jimmy was still bedfast.

There was much bowing and giggling. The translating
was done by the father of Toma, the tall native youth whose outrigger had
picked me up and had brought the three of us to the village. The father,
a sub chief of the tribe, once had been a cook on a trading vessel, making
several visits to San Francisco. Through him we told the ladies we never
could repay the kindness and hospitality of their tribe. We assured them
the great country of America soon would hear about them. They seemed duly
impressed and thrilled for a moment. Then they started giggling
again.

And now, I must tell about Toma. He is 19 years old,
stands well over six feet, and is handsomely proportioned. He is about the
color of honey and has live, intelligent eyes. His English is pretty good;
so good that I was surprised. He never has been far from his native
island.

He seemed to take an instant liking to me. When we
got better acquainted he wanted to know my name. He liked "Jim" all right,
but the sharp syllables of "Whittaker" apparently were not so pleasing to
him. So Toma rechristened me "Jim America."

After we had finished our cocoanuts on the afternoon
his men had picked me up, Toma wanted to know what else I wanted. I replied
jokingly that a good, American cigarette would just about fix me up. I had
hardly finished speaking before he had bounded out of the hut and was heading
for the palm woods in an easy lope. In a

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short while he was back, holding out his hand to me. In it lay
a package of American cigarettes. I was thunderstruck.

"Much obliged, Aladdin," I said.

Then he told me, "My name is Toma."

Eventually he made me understand that white warriors
had given them to him; that he had buried them, and had intended digging
them at Christmas time. This was the first I knew of the nearby
garrison.

Just before we left, Toma presented me with a gift
that really touched me. It was the scale model of the outrigger in which
he rescued me. Let me try to make you understand the significance of
this.

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When a native builds a boat he also builds a scale
model, as much like the larger craft as he can make it. He believes that
so long as the model is safe the boat is safe. The model, therefore, is guarded
closely. Usually it is hidden in some secure place. It is seldom indeed that
a native will let such a model out of his own hands; to say nothing of allowing
it to go out of his possession and protection.

It was the supreme compliment. Toma told me with great
earnestness that I should keep it safe. If anything should happen to it,
he assured me, the same disaster would befall the big outrigger. On the bow
of the model he put my name: "Jim America" and "from Toma." He added the
name of the island.

Toma's model occupies a place of honor in my home
at Burlingame, California. And not far from it, mounted and polished, is
that empty flare shell from which we drank our doles of water and with which
Jimmy Reynolds sluiced my head and neck during our first effort to land on
the island.

In the early evening of Nov. 14 we experienced the
real thing in the way of rescue. A naval vessel, commanded by Lieut.-Comm.
Frank A. Monroe, Jr., reached the island and took us aboard. The medical
officer, Lieut. Richard W. Garrity, assumed charge of us and we said our
good-byes to the natives.

Just before going, I asked Toma what he would like
me to send him. He grew very shy and assured me he wanted nothing. I pressed
him. I said I had accepted his gifts and that I should be grieved if he declined
mine. Finally, in a low voice he said something about enjoying a cake of
soap; or half a cake, if a whole one would be too much to manage.

By now, Toma is the owner of three suits of cottons,
a carton of soap, and many times the number of cigarettes he gave to me.
There are some other things, too. The

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store of worldly goods I sent him undoubtedly made Toma the largest
property owner in the island. I hope he is a chief when and if I ever see
him again.

The chief of the village accompanied us to the water,
inviting us to return when the war is over and make our homes on the island.
He said that to be sure we would like it there we might come for a short,
temporary visit of say a year or so. Meanwhile, he would build an addition
to his house so that we all might live together.